Vengeful Soul
by SHARP546
Summary: Five years since the Dragon Crisis and Skyrim is in turmoil. Blood runs in the streets, bandits control the countryside, and no one has seen the Dragonborn since he went to investigate a new group of vampire hunters. With chaos reigning and a new war on the horizon, where can a newly orphaned girl turn for help?
1. Chapter 1

**A short summary of events leading up to the start of a new fic set in Skyrim five years after the events of the game.**

Introduction.

For the last five years, upon every sunrise, all light was stolen from the world. A brief flicker of hope every dawn, cruelly swallowed by a swirling maelstrom of malevolence. The roads became lengthy death traps as bandits sought easy prey, rogue necromancers searched for new test subjects and slaves, and those who were maddened by what they saw as a sign of impending apocalypse, turned savage without fear of reprisal.

Werewolves roamed the wilds in packs, vampires hunted in the cities, and dragons nested in the peaks.

Prophets preached of the gods' displeasure, politicians argued for a return to the Imperial fold, and, as always, the people suffered.

Public paranoia ruined the thieves guild as everyone, from the highest lord to the lowest beggar, tightened their hold on all that was theirs. The College of Winterhold was sacked and burned by a mob determined to prove the mages as the source of all their woes. As the last resident mage fell, so too did the College. The ancient wards that previously protected it from disaster failed and plunged the rioters into the freezing northern seas. The Dark Brotherhood entered a new golden age and thrived.

Rather than become a tool for those seeking power in these dark times, the Companions retreated to the tomb of Ysgramor and refused to emerge. For the first time since it's construction, Jorrvaskr was emptied.

Some looked to the return of their hero, the Dragonborn. There had been no sightings of the legendary saviour of the Dragon Crisis for these five years and many gave up, claiming his death. Still, some persisted in their hope and were derided as delusional hero worshippers .

High King Ulfric returned the capital to the inhospitable north east, to the snow laden city of Windhelm. There, he tried to come to terms with the reality of governing a country on the edge of collapse. He thrived as a wartime leader, but not all problems could be tackled head on, and he lacked the political acumen such a position demanded. He had not the forces to secure the roads, nor to tame the wilds, nor to enforce his will. His pride refused to even consider turning to Cyrodil for aid, and the Jarls despaired.

Several of these Jarls formed a new alliance for mutual aid. Haafingar, Hjaalmarch, The Rift, and Falkreath holds defected from the rule of High King Ulfric and refused to acknowledge him as High King. Eastmarch, The Pale, and The Rift remained true. Winterhold, having effectively ceased to exist as a hold, was absorbed by The Pale.

Whiterun hold maintained a stance of strict neutrality in this feud, and retained trade links with both alliances, known simply as the Eastern and Western Alliances, and reaped the benefits while risking destruction between the two opposing forces.

* * *

When crisis strikes, people cling to what is familiar and reject that which is not. Skyrim's foreign population suddenly found itself a target of roving gangs intent on driving the 'foreign curse' from the land. Thugs broke down doors and killed whole households in the night. Some deaths were quick, most were not. Windhelm's Dunmer and Argonian residents, anticipating the new wave of violence, fled their homes and made their way west, settling wherever they could. Some few banded together in the swamps of Hjaalmarch in a bid to provide a safe haven for fleeing refugees, and to strike back against those Nords who attacked their peoples. They welcomed any not of Norse descent and soon their ranks were filled with Bosmer, Redguard, and Breton recruits. The Khajiit caravans, also finding themselves under attack, agreed to discreetly help supply the group.

Despite their valiant efforts, the Dawnguard were unable to stem the vampiric tide. Reformed too late and growing too slowly, they soon found themselves overwhelmed. Anyone who left the fort was never seen again, except for their heads, routinely mounted on spikes at the entrance to their valley. Knowing they were under close watch, Isran led his few remaining cohorts on a march to cross Skyrim and kill any vampires they found. His small force was ambushed on the shores of Lake Ilinalta after passing through Helgen on the road to Falkreath. Slain to the last, their bodies were left to rot. And so passed the Dawnguard from the annals of history. Fort Dawnguard, once again, was left to crumble.

Sensing an opportunity, the Forsworn stepped up their campaign in The Reach. Jarl Thongvor Silver-Blood responded in kind by sending men into the hills with orders to kill all Forsworn and to burn their camps. The Forsworn ranks were decimated and they had little choice but to retreat to their hidden strongholds and wait. It would be generations before they could return to their former strength, and by that time they risked irrelevance. The campaign was not without consequence. Fully half of the Markarth City Guard lay dead, and while some lauded Jarl Thongvor as a hero for his decisive action, many others called him murderer and named him Jarl Thongvor Stone-Heart in mockery of his family motto. "Blood and silver" was replaced with "blood on the stone" for many, in reference to the blood shed among the rocky crags of The Reach.

Shortly after Ulfric was named High King, in a fit of nationalistic fervour the more outspoken Nordic population of Solitude ransacked and burned the East Empire Company warehouse on the Solitude dock, dealing a potentially crippling blow to Skyrim's economy as well as to relations with the Empire. Further, the fire spread to several ships moored in the docks, destroying them and their cargo, and bankrupting their captains. The few crew still aboard these ships were never found and, curiously, the docks between the warehouse and the ships were untouched by the fire.

In the rising turmoil, desperate people seek new guidance. The daedric cults grow in numbers and are emboldened. No longer content to hide far from civilization, some take to the cities to recruit new members. Apparently offering solutions to all their problems, many pledge themselves to the daedric princes in hopes of attaining salvation. Among these, the cult of Mehrunes Dagon, lord of revolution, rose to prominence, his role in the Oblivion Crisis conveniently forgotten.

* * *

So stands Skyrim five years since the Dragon Crisis, a country on the brink. The plight of the people seems hopeless, the situation irretrievable. The actions of many stir a volatile mixture, and yet it may take the will of just one to bring all to harmony. Or ruination.

**A/N: Sometimes I get these ideas and I have toput them down somewhere.  
****I will get back to my ME fics, I promise. I just stopped writing for some reason, lost all motivation. Hopefully, this will help towards fixing that. Consider it a side project.**


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 1.

Trekking was easier when there was no snow involved, Relave decided, though her feet couldn't really tell the difference at the end of each day. At least it was warmer further south, and that, of course, brought out the bugs. Still, the hot springs had been nice. Until the mammoth herd had forced them to move on rather swiftly. It wasn't that they were intimidated, mammoths are generally quite placid creatures, but the _smell_!

Relave sighed, breath misting in the cold night air, and tilted her head back, hugging one knee to her chest. Her small family had already retired to their tent set up in an out of the way spot at Darkwater Crossing. Pleading an energy she did not feel, Relave had elected to stay up a while longer. It wasn't that she disliked them, they were her family after all, but the journey had left little time for such things as privacy or personal space, and she just needed this time to herself to reflect and be at peace in the silence.

Her family, and a few others, had tarried for over a year after the general exodus from Windhelm in the hopes that it would all blow over and they could resume their lives peacefully. Her father, ever an optimist, firmly believed that their 'good Nord neighbours' would quickly work out the true source of their problems and stop blaming 'outside influence'. Relave couldn't help but scowl every time she heard the locals described as 'good'. If they were good people, why keep all the Dunmer in a squalid ghetto? Why keep the Argonians out entirely? Where had this upswelling of popular hatred come from if not the darkest recesses of their simple minds?

Finding another scowl on her face, she took a deep breath and pushed it away. Free time was scarce these days and she wasn't going to waste it on that. Her father's plan had been to avoid Helgen by heading south from Windhelm, then west to Pale Pass through the Jerall Mountains into Cyrodil. The journey had been quiet so far, some stroke of luck turning the bandits' gaze elsewhere, despite Relave's muttered misgivings. Her father had laughed all her concerns off however, an infuriating habit born of that optimism of his, a habit that had frustrated her since she was old enough to understand the world. Her mother called her a pessimist, her father called it realism. Relave was aware that she could be a sour presence at times, but she preferred to think of her outlook as balanced. An optimist often overlooks the bad for the sake of the good, and a pessimist the opposite. Relave liked to be aware of the world, but not at the expense of seeing the wonders it held and so rarely shared.

She had rarely been outside the walls of Windhelm before now, and though she knew they were fleeing persecution at the hands of an uncaring mob, she couldn't help but feel a certain excitement. There was so much to see. Mammoths and giants, new cities, she was certain she had once seen a dragon circling a distant peak, though no one had believed her. The event had become a constant source of teasing from her family at the passing of every bird overhead. Her younger brother, still a child, had once gasped dramatically at a nearby hummingbird, yelled "Dragon!" and dove into some bushes for cover. The little fool had gotten soaked for his endeavour and received a just chiding from their mother as a reward. It wasn't really his fault though, he was still too young to fully comprehend the reason for their flight, and their father had kept the mood jovial as they went in an attempt to alleviate the stress and to keep Fadril, her brother, in the dark. He didn't need to know about the death threats, the murders, or that the bruises on mother's face weren't from a fall at the market. Apparently, being Dunmer was reason enough for the city guard to 'question' someone. That day had been the closest Relave had seen her father come to losing his temper. At the very least, it had been the final straw. They had packed that night and left as soon as the gates opened at dawn, father weaving tales of adventure for young Fadril to absorb.

Suddenly shivering in the night air, Relave decided she'd had enough of being by herself, too much opportunity to get lost in resentment. She didn't want to become bitter, and the best way to avoid that was to move on. Forget the idiots who forced them to run and live in the present. An amused puff of breath escaped her lips. Easier said than done.

Scooping some dirt over the last remnants of their small fire, she stood, stretched, and headed for the tent. In times like these, it was best to look to one's own for companionship and ignore all others, they could only disappoint. Stopping short of the tent, Relave wondered why her people had come to Skyrim in the first place. The Nords and Dunmer were so radically different to each other, there was never going to be an equal relationship between them. She could only shake her head at her ancestors' naivete, they could have spared their people a great deal of hardship had they but continued on to Cyrodil, or Hammerfell, or anywhere else but this frozen rock.

With a frustrated shake of her head, she gave up and ducked into the tent to join her family.

* * *

"I hope you didn't spend too much time brooding last night, Rel."

Relave looked at her father. "Brooding?" she asked innocently. He answered her question with steady stare, forcing her to avert her gaze and blow out a huff of frustration.

Tavreloth put a hand on his daughter's shoulder and gave a reassuring squeeze. "You mustn't hate them, Rel. They're scared and they just want to make that fear go away, however they can."

"You're too charitable, father." Relave replied with a shake of her head. "What did they do to win your confidence?"

Tavreloth sighed. "If we must quantify this by material gain, they gave us a home, Rel. Somewhere to stay when fire and ash took our own from us."

"A slum." Rel snorted. "A slum they just forced us from because, in their eyes, we're not even good enough for that."

"And Solstheim?" her father countered. "They gave a part of their own land for us to settle. Surely you can't fault them for that."

"They gave us an ashen chunk of rock in the freezing seas of the north that they had no further use for. Not only that, their ship captains charged so much for passage, most of the Grey Quarter couldn't afford to go there!"

"Rel, don't let this hatred fester in your heart, it will only poison your mind." her father cautioned with real concern in his voice, the usual teasing tone gone for once.

Relave merely sighed and dropped back to the small cart that held the few belongings they had elected to bring. Pulled by a plodding mare, the pace of the cart dictated how far they went in a day, and thus it had been important not to overbear it. It was with some surprise, then, that she found young Fadril seated in the back staring intently at an empty jar. Rel exchanged a glance with her mother, who shrugged and kept walking. The boy was hopelessly babied.

"What are you doing Fad? You know you're not meant to be up there." At the very least, Rel refused to give him any special treatment.

"Look what I caught!" he exclaimed, easily ignoring her implied chastisement. Moving his hands, he showed her the inside of the jar. A bundle of grass lay at the bottom, topped by a single twig, atop which sat elegantly a monarch butterfly.

"That's nice, but..." she took the jar from him and tilted the top toward him. "You can't put any holes here for the poor thing to breathe, you'll have to let it go." she told him gently.

"No!" he protested. "I caught it!"

"And I'm sure the hunt was glorious," she said with a roll of the eyes, "but are you planning on eating it?"

"No..." he replied with a downcast expression.

"Then why kill it?" she asked, placing a hand on his head. "Let it go, Fad. It needs to live its life on its own terms."

"All right, Rel." he acquiesced, not without a great deal of pouting.

"Good. And maybe I can trade for some sweets the next time we stop in a town." she added with a wink. Fad threw her a quick toothy grin, hopped down from the cart, and ran up to their father for assistance in releasing his captive.

"Tch. Crap, I babied him." Rel muttered to herelf.

"Of course you did, he's your little brother."

It took Rel a great deal of self control not to jump out of her skin. Her mother walked next to her as though she had always been there, she'd always had an uncanny ability to move unheard. No mischief was permitted under her roof, she saw everything, heard everything.

Sadene looked ahead at her husband and son, Tavreloth struggling comically to remove the jars lid, and smiled fondly. Turning her gaze to her daughter, her smile turned almost sad. "See something of yourself in that butterfly?" she asked.

An amused huff escaped Rel's nose. "I'm no butterfly, mother." she answered.

"No. Perhaps not." her mother agreed. Rel wasn't entirely sure how to react to that. A moment later she didn't need to, as Sadene drew in a deep breath.

"I know why you've taken to hiding a knife under your clothes, child, and I won't stop you, just be careful if you use it. A weapon, any weapon, can escalate a situation beyond control. Trust in your father and I to see us through whatever lies ahead, there's no need to bloody your hands unnecessarily."

Rel nodded mutely. Her mother saw everything, heard everything.

"And do try not to cut yourself, that would be awkward to explain to your father."

Rel choked on that a little bit. Her mother could be as subtle as an assassin's blade, but her sense of humour was more like a hammer to the back of the head. Unexpected, disarming, and not a little painful. Assuming it didn't knock you out cold, that is.

* * *

A day of travelling had brought them to the shores of Lake Geir. Dusk was fast approaching and Tavreloth called for a stop, citing the need for their poor horse to rest, though in reality, Relave knew her father was struggling himself. He wasn't a young man and the long days of walking were starting to take their toll, biting at the inside of her cheek, Rel worried for him.

Setting up camp by the road on a small hill overlooking the lake, their small family set to their usual tasks. Tavreloth began chopping firewood, Sadene took a bundle of clothes down to the lake edge, and Fadril poked in the bushes for some more bugs to capture. Rel distracted herself with the view.

The setting sun, or what passed as a sunset, set the lake ablaze with orange, the mountains in contrasting shadow, and threw the ruins on the lake's small island into a play of light and shadow. Drawing in a deep breath, Rel felt her cares drain away. Perhaps travelling wasn't such a bad thing if it afforded her an opportunity to see sights like this.

"Oi, Rel!" Rel snapped from her reverie as her father's voice called out to her. "If you think you're just going to stand there while the rest of us work, think again. We could use some more meat, feel like hunting?"

"Yes!" Rel practically bounced toward her father in anticipation.

"You sure?" he teased, "You don't seem very enthusiastic."

"I'm sure, let's go!"

Chuckling, Tavreloth threw her a hunting bow and quiver of arrows and, unusually, handed her a sheathed knife.

Squinting at him before taking it, Rel tied it onto her belt. Skinning the kill was his job. "You're not coming?" she asked.

He winked at her. "Let's see what you can do on your own. Unless you don't feel up to it?"

Snapping at his obvious bait, Rel turned on her heel and stomped into the trees.

Once out of sight, she dropped her offended demeanour. Her father was tired. Too tired to hunt with her. Rel shuddered. He was getting old, not a nice thought.

* * *

Slow breaths, calm mind, careful steps. Stalking deer necessitated a certain stealthiness, they were jumpy creatures, liable to flee at the sound of a snapped twig. Rel had tracked a small herd for an hour, and they had stopped in a small clearing. The one she wanted, a young stag with a pronounced limp in the right foreleg, was near the centre of the group, presenting a more difficult shot, especially with the lessened light. Her position wasn't going to get any better, she'd just have to take the shot and hope it landed where she needed it to. If she missed, she'd have to return with nothing and endure her father's and Fad's taunts.

She already had an arrow ready, and raised her bow, tilting it sideways slightly to avoid scraping it on the ground from her crouched position and alerting the deer. Taking a deep breath, she slowly drew back the string. The aged wood of the bow creaked with the pull, but went unnoticed among the trees. Sighting down the shaft of the arrow, Rel released half her breath, and fired.

A bleating call arose and the herd rose and fled in a thunder of panicked hooves, leaving one of their number behind. Rising from her crouch, Rel slung her bow over her shoulder and approached the weakly struggling stag. Drawing her knife, she knelt next to it and quickly cut its throat. No sense in prolonging its suffering. Taking time to talk to a dying animal that couldn't understand you was a luxury afforded only to the sensitive heroes of fiction. Real hunting, the real slaughter of animals, was quick and brutal by necessity and Rel held no illusions about the nature of life and death. Better quick than lingering.

There was no point in trying to drag the whole carcass with her, but she had enough space in her small pack for the best parts. The rest would be left to the wild. She had to be quick, take too long butchering a kill and wolves would sneak up on you.

With her pack full, Rel set off for the camp. Taking less care, but still paying attention to her surroundings, returning wouldn't take as long as the hunt. She had a good sense of direction, but it didn't seem that she would need it, their fire was throwing up that much smoke. The firewood must have gotten wet somehow, or her father had insisted on cooking again. Just her luck. Knowing him, he'd have managed to burn the water, rather than boiling it, a feat that only he was capable of. The laws of nature didn't apply to her father's cooking.

* * *

As she drew closer to camp the smoke had abated somewhat, but it was quiet. Why wasn't mother scolding father for destroying a simple meal? Where was Fadril's poorly stifled laughter?

Clearing the trees, Relave jolted to a halt. The tent had been knocked down and set alight, the cooking utensils scattered, and the horse lay in a spreading pool of blood. She had to cover her mouth to stop from screaming when she saw her father.

He lay on the far side of the fire, light reflecting off open eyes, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. The glare of the fire hid the rest, but Rel had no doubt that he was dead.


End file.
